Broken pieces

The text that changed everything

Snow sat in his dark room, staring at the ceiling like it was some kind of cosmic joke—because honestly, wasn't everything a joke at this point? The cracks in the plaster looked like a map to nowhere, which felt painfully appropriate.

His phone buzzed. Again.

He didn't want to look. He knew what it said. But the human brain is a masochist, so of course he looked.

"I'm sorry, Snow. I can't do this anymore."

Eight words. Jane had managed to destroy four years of his life in eight measly words. Not even a paragraph. Not even a phone call. Just eight words sent at 11:47 PM on a Tuesday, like she was canceling a dentist appointment.

Snow dropped the phone on his bed and buried his face in his hands. The playlist they'd made together—Their Songs, she'd called it, with that stupid heart emoji—still played softly from the speaker. "Slow Dancing in a Burning Room" mocked him now. John Mayer really knew how to twist the knife.

People always said heartbreak feels like someone ripping out your heart. Dramatic poets and Taylor Swift had made entire careers out of that metaphor. But to Snow, it felt different—like someone had ripped out his heart, sure, but then replaced it with a speaker that only played the echo of Jane's laughter on loop. The same laugh that used to make him feel like he could fly now made him want to throw himself off a building. Metaphorically speaking. Mostly.

He tried to sleep. His brain said no, how about we replay every moment you screwed up instead?

He tried to cry. His eyes said sorry bud, we're all dried up from the last three hours.

Nothing worked.

Finally, he threw on his hoodie—the black one Jane said made him look like a "mysterious indie film protagonist"—and stepped into the night. Because if rom-coms taught him anything, it's that walking aimlessly in the rain solves everything. Spoiler alert: it doesn't.

The city streets glistened under the rain, neon lights reflecting on puddles like some pretentious i********: filter. His sneakers splashed through the water with each step. He walked without direction, just trying to outrun the silence in his head that kept screaming you weren't enough, you weren't enough, you weren't enough.

He thought about the promises Jane made. The plans they had. She was going to study art in the city. He was going to study music. They'd get a tiny apartment with a cat named Hendrix. She'd paint while he wrote songs. They'd be broke and happy and in love.

All gone. Poof. Like a magic trick, except the only thing that disappeared was his future.

He whispered her name once—"Jane"—then bit his lip until he tasted copper.

Love. What a cruel, cosmic joke.

Four years. Four entire years of his life, gone.

Snow remembered the day they met like it was yesterday, which was ironic because he couldn't remember what he ate for breakfast yesterday. Selective memory was funny like that.

It was the summer after high school graduation. That weird limbo period where you're technically an adult but still feel like a kid playing dress-up. Snow had taken a job at that pretentious coffee shop downtown—The Grind, because of course it was called that—to save money for college. He'd been working there for two weeks when Jane walked in.

She ordered a lavender latte with oat milk, which should have been a red flag because who actually drinks lavender lattes? But Jane made it work. She made everything work.

She had paint splattered on her jeans—actual paint, not the designer kind people pay extra for—and her hair was tied up in a messy bun that shouldn't have looked good but somehow did. She smiled at him while ordering, and Snow forgot how to make coffee.

"First day?" she'd asked, watching him fumble with the espresso machine.

"Second week, actually," he'd admitted, cheeks burning. "I'm just really bad at this."

She laughed. God, that laugh. "Well, as long as you don't poison me, we're good."

He didn't poison her. In fact, he made the best lavender latte he'd ever made, which wasn't saying much, but Jane claimed it was perfect. She came back the next day. And the next. And the next.

By the end of summer, they were inseparable.

She'd sit at the corner table, sketching in her notebook while he worked. During his breaks, he'd play guitar quietly in the back room, and she'd listen like he was playing Madison Square Garden. She was the first person who made him believe his music mattered.

"You're going to be famous one day," she'd told him once, completely serious.

"And you're going to be in museums," he'd replied.

"Then we'll be famous together," she'd said, kissing him softly.

That was the summer everything felt possible. When the future looked bright and love felt easy and forever seemed real.

Now, walking through the rain-soaked streets four years later, Snow realized how stupid he'd been. Forever was just another word people used when they meant until I get bored.

His phone buzzed again. For a split second, his heart leaped—maybe it was Jane, maybe she'd changed her mind, maybe—

It was his mom.

"Honey, are you okay? Jane's mother called me. Do you want to talk?"

Snow stared at the message. Of course Jane's mother called. Because nothing says my relationship just imploded like your ex's mom reaching out to your mom. This was his life now. A supporting character in someone else's tragedy.

He typed back: "I'm fine, Mom. Just out for a walk."

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

"Okay, sweetie. I'm here if you need me. Love you."

"Love you too."

He shoved the phone back in his pocket. His mom meant well. Everyone meant well. But well-meaning didn't fix the gaping hole in his chest.

Snow found himself at the bridge—the one where he and Jane used to go when they needed to think. They'd sit on the railing, legs dangling over the edge, and talk about everything. Their dreams. Their fears. The future.

"Promise me something," Jane had said once, looking out at the city lights.

"Anything," Snow had replied.

"Promise me we'll never become those couples who forget why they fell in love."

"I promise."

Well, promises were meant to be broken, apparently.

Snow climbed up on the railing now, sitting in their spot alone. The rain had slowed to a drizzle. The city sprawled out before him, indifferent to his pain. Somewhere down there, Jane was probably sleeping peacefully. Or maybe she was awake too, thinking about him.

Probably not.

He pulled out his phone and opened their text thread. Four years of conversations. Four years of "good morning beautiful" and "I miss you" and "I love you more." He scrolled to the top, to the very first message she'd ever sent him.

"Hey coffee boy, this is Jane from The Grind. You left your notebook at the shop. It has song lyrics in it. They're really good. You should let me paint something inspired by them sometime. :)"

He'd replied: "Only if you let me write a song about your art."

And she'd said: "Deal."

That was the beginning. This—sitting alone on a bridge in the rain, rereading old messages like a pathetic rom-com character—was the end.

Snow looked up at the sky. "Real funny, universe. Real hilarious."

The universe, as expected, didn't respond.

He climbed down from the railing and started walking again. Because that's all you can do when your world falls apart—put one foot in front of the other and pretend you're not completely lost.

Little did Snow know, across the city, another lost soul was doing the exact same thing.